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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25719535">Observations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17'>trustingHim17</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:48:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25719535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In Gathering, Holmes doubted he would ever look at that stretch of river the same way again. When did Watson notice this?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Observations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I first noticed it a few months after his return.</p>
<p>“Holmes, why are you in a hurry?” I asked, nearly breathless.</p>
<p>He checked his pace, slowing as he took my arm.</p>
<p>“I am not.”</p>
<p>I smothered my relief at the chance to catch my breath. My leg was loudly protesting our pace, and I dearly wanted to stop moving for a few minutes.</p>
<p>“Good. It is a beautiful day. Shall we sit for a while?” My gaze landed on a nearby bench, and I turned towards it as I spoke.</p>
<p>He saw through the question to what I was really saying and agreed. “But not there.”</p>
<p>Keeping a steady grip on my arm, he redirected me to another bench slightly further away, one which faced away from the one I had seen first, and I frowned in thought, wondering what was wrong with the place I had chosen.</p>
<p>When I asked, however, he refused to answer, only tightening his grip on my arm. It confused me, but I disregarded it as one of the many things that had changed while he was gone. Perhaps he preferred wood over stone? I did not know, and I put it out of my mind, until the next time.</p>
<p>“Holmes, the bench is not going to attack you. Sit down and enjoy the view.”</p>
<p>He eyed the bench—or was it a spot in front of the bench?—warily, but sat, the tension settling onto his shoulders. I frowned, curious, but said nothing, even when he sat close enough to jostle my arm with his fidgeting.</p>
<p>I had taken a journal to the riverside as an excuse to be outside, and I tore a blank page from the back.</p>
<p>“Here,” I handed him the journal page and a spare pencil I had in my pocket. “If you are going to fidget, at least be productive.” I smirked at him. “I came out here to write. Maybe you can compose.”</p>
<p>He pulled a face at my teasing but took the paper, and I turned back to my journal. It had been many months since I had wanted to write anything, much less my own thoughts, and my pen flew across the paper even as I subconsciously made sure Holmes was not reading over my shoulder.</p>
<p>His attention remained split between the paper and a spot on the riverbank, however, and I continued writing, detailing a recent case, my thoughts, and anything else that came to mind.</p>
<p>I finished several minutes later and put away the journal, glancing over at Holmes. Sensing I was ready to leave, he hurriedly returned the pencil and slipped the paper into his pocket, and if I noticed his steps were rather long until we were well away from the river, I said nothing.</p>
<p>Seasons changed, we got busier with cases, and the incidents faded from memory, lost behind captured thieves and rescued hostages. While I spent many quiet afternoons at the river’s edge, another year passed before I noticed Holmes there again. One sunny September afternoon, Holmes had left the flat to run errands, and I had found myself with time to spare, so I took a book to a nearby bench and lost myself in its pages. The weather would be changing soon, and I wouldn’t have many more opportunities left this year to enjoy being outside.</p>
<p>I looked up hours later, sensing I was being watched. Holmes stood not twenty feet away, apparently staring at the river, though he walked towards me when I looked up.</p>
<p>“Supper at Simpson’s?” he asked as he got closer, cutting off my own budding question of why he had been staring at the river.                                                                                                                                                                         </p>
<p>I frowned but nodded, and he drew me into a conversation regarding our last case that lasted until we arrived back at Baker Street.</p>
<p>The question returned later, after I had seated myself before the fire and Holmes had begun messing with his chemistry set, and I pondered it. Why would he despise that section of the river so much?</p>
<p>Or was it the bench itself? I thought back to the other times I had noticed it. He never let us walk by that area, usually detouring a block in either direction. Whenever I tried to pause there, he tried to move us along, and he refused to answer any questions. He had been staring out over the river earlier, but the first time, he had chosen a bench that pointedly looked <em>away</em> from the bench I had chosen. If it was just a preference of one bench over another, why would he choose the closest one that looked away, instead of simply the closest one?</p>
<p>I mulled it over for much of the evening, turning the question over in my mind as I sought an answer that would cover everything, but I could think of nothing. I knew of no reason for Holmes to so dislike that area. None of our cases had ended there, begun there, or had anything to do with the spot, and I had spent many afternoons there before my marriage. He had never cared then. Why would he care now?</p>
<p>I was still pondering the question when I decided I wanted to read. Choosing a book off a cluttered shelf, a paper fell to the floor with one of Holmes’ books, and I knelt to pick them up, thinking nothing of it and intending to put them back.</p>
<p>I placed the book back in its place, but I recognized the basics of a sketch on the corner of the paper, and I opened it, curious. I had not seen a hand sketch in years, and I always enjoyed comparing them to what I remembered of Harry’s.</p>
<p>It showed a riverfront with a bench off to the left, nearly out of the picture, and the silhouette of a man in the center. The man stood limply, somehow appearing to gaze into the distance though I could not see his face, and I looked closer, wondering who had drawn it.</p>
<p>There was no signature in the corner, and I studied the drawing again. The view looked familiar, and I tried to decide of what it reminded me.</p>
<p>It took only a moment; I had seen the spot that afternoon. It was a sketch showing the bench I frequented and the river in front of it, and the man…</p>
<p>I looked again. The man was <em>me</em>. It was a drawing of me standing at the edge of the river, and I stared.</p>
<p>Who had—? Had <em>Holmes</em>—? But how?</p>
<p>I sank back onto my heels, staring at the drawing as I tried to form a complete thought. The only thing this could be showing was the last regression before I had put the house up for sale, the one where I had woken on the banks of the Thames. How could <em>Holmes</em> know about that? I certainly had never told him, and I remembered seeing no one around that evening—something I had been glad of, at the time.</p>
<p>“Watson?”</p>
<p>Holmes’ voice cut into my thoughts, and I tensed and lost my balance, sitting heavily on the floor as my bad leg gave out beneath me at the quick movement.</p>
<p>Glancing up as I tried to stand, I found Holmes hurrying toward me, leaving his chemistry beaker sitting haphazardly on the table in his haste to help me up.</p>
<p>“I did not intend to startle you,” he muttered, the near apology barely audible as he pulled me to my feet. I said nothing, trying not to stare either at him or at the drawing I still held in my hand, and he noticed, of course.</p>
<p>“Alright, Watson?”</p>
<p>I nodded, my thoughts still centered on the drawing. If he had not been here, how could he know of that incident? He had told me that he had returned as soon as he heard about Mary, but for him to know what the drawing showed meant either Mycroft had been watching somehow and told him—possible, I supposed, but highly improbable—or…</p>
<p>Or he had been back in London for <em>weeks</em> before revealing himself to me.</p>
<p>“Watson?”</p>
<p>I nearly flinched, muttering a thanks for helping me up even as I turned my face away from his gaze, not wanting him to read the doubt that had invaded. Had he lied to me again? If he had returned early enough to see that regression, then why had he told me he had come directly to find me? There had been several weeks between the two events.</p>
<p>I fought to wipe my expression, fought not to react to the thoughts swirling in my mind as I set the drawing down and turned to retreat to my room. I needed to think this over before I asked any questions. I needed to find another way he could know about that incident that fit with what he had told me, because if he had lied to me…</p>
<p>I did not want to think about that.</p>
<p>“Watson, wait.”</p>
<p>A hand landed on my good shoulder, and I froze. Quickly sinking into my thoughts, I had nearly forgotten he was there, and a glance showed that I had foolishly set the drawing on the table face up.</p>
<p>“Watson, whatever you are thinking, it is probably not accurate.”</p>
<p>Silence answered him for a long moment</p>
<p>“You know,” I finally replied, carefully modulating my voice to hide the emotion coursing through me, “one would think you would know better than to lie to me after all these years.”</p>
<p>There was another pause as he quickly deduced my meaning. “I did not lie to you. I did not witness this.”</p>
<p>I saw him gesture toward the drawing in the corner of my vision, but I did not turn around, fighting not to lose my temper. “How else could you have drawn it, then? I can understand my not knowing you could draw; we have never discussed it. But I certainly did not draw it, and no one else uses this sitting room.”</p>
<p>“I drew it, but I did not witness it.”</p>
<p>His hand fell off my shoulder as I turned around at the inconsistency. “How in the blazes could you even know about it if you did not see it?!” I growled. “The riverfront was empty that day, and only you have ever been able to follow me!”</p>
<p>Something about that comment amused him, and he could not quite cover it. “The Yard followed you everywhere for months.”</p>
<p>I stilled, realizing the implications of that statement. The <em>Yard</em> had been following me? And I hadn’t noticed them? Even worse, someone at the <em>Yard</em> had seen me in the midst of a major regression? How had I not ended up in Bedlam?</p>
<p>“Lestrade was watching you that day. He thought you were sleepwalking.”</p>
<p>“In the middle of the <em>day</em>?”</p>
<p>Holmes shrugged minutely. “He also mentioned that you had not been sleeping. I suppose he thought the lack of rest had simply caught up to you.”</p>
<p>A shiver ran down my spine at the possibilities. If Lestrade had touched me…</p>
<p> “You were three steps from the river when you snapped out of it,” Holmes continued, his voice strangely quiet. “Lestrade may not have known what was going on, but he knew there was something wrong, and he would not have let you fall in.”</p>
<p>I shook my head, realizing Holmes had misinterpreted my thoughts. “If Lestrade had touched me,” I said quietly, recalling the memory that had taken over that day, “we both would have gone in.”</p>
<p>I would never have forgiven myself, but then…I doubted either of us would have survived a swim in the river, so I would have been dead. The dead carry no guilt, but I would not have wanted to take Lestrade with me.</p>
<p>“Is this why you avoid that section of river?” I asked.</p>
<p>Holmes opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. “You nearly—I nearly—it would have been my fault.”</p>
<p>The words came out falteringly and nearly inaudible, and I stared at him, trying to fill in his sentences.</p>
<p>I had nearly…died. It was a regression. Not his fault.</p>
<p>He had nearly…what? Attended a funeral? No, he had not returned for several weeks. He would not have attended a funeral, not if the mail had truly been delayed as he had said before. Also, not his fault.</p>
<p>So why did he hate that spot? What would have been his fault?</p>
<p>I let my confusion show on my face, and he read it easily, realizing I could not fill in his broken sentences.</p>
<p>He remained silent, fighting to voice his thoughts, and I waited. I had finally learned that his aversion to emotions was more due to his inability to voice them than a lack of them completely, and I saw it every time something like this happened. If I could not listen to what he did not say, if he had to find a way to voice the things he found so uncomfortable, I always had to be patient. He was much more willing to search for the words than he had been before Switzerland, but I had to give him the time to find them.</p>
<p>The hardest was in instances like this one, when I could not hide my thoughts when his actions hurt me. I had wanted to leave the room, to think it over before I confronted him about it in an effort to set aside my own reaction. I still wanted to leave. When I was forced to discuss something without enough time to box up the emotions and set them aside, he ended up uncomfortable, and I ended up torn between wanting to trust him enough to ask before it came to this and wanting to retreat and learn better ways to hide. I tended toward the latter, preferring to work through my own hurt silently rather than take the chance of hurting him. I would rather work through it silently than chance hurting him enough to make him leave again.</p>
<p>“If…if you had fallen into the river that day,” his voice was quiet, nearly hesitant, and his bright red ears plainly betrayed his discomfort at voicing his thoughts, “it would have been just as much my fault as if I had pushed you in, myself.”</p>
<p>I frowned, still showing my confusion. “You had no control over that, Holmes. <em>I</em> don’t even have control when the memories take over. That is why they are regressions. How would that have been your fault? You said the mail stopped going through. You would not have even heard about it for over a month.”</p>
<p>He flinched, and my confusion grew when I realized he had either not attempted to hide it or had failed completely. Why would an incident so long ago—that he hadn’t even witnessed—still affect him like that? I certainly would not have cared, at least at the time, and now, it was in the past. I had no reason to let it bother me.</p>
<p>Hissing sounded from his chemistry set before he could say something else, and we both looked over. The beaker he had left on the table to help me up sat next to an active burner, and the beaker’s contents were beginning to boil. He lunged, turning off the burner and moving the beaker before its contents could grow too warm, and I debated using his distraction to leave the room.</p>
<p>I hesitated too long, unsure if it would be better to leave or stay, and Holmes finished rescuing his experiment and turned back to me. I could see he was still fighting for a response, and I waited, unable to leave when I could see he was trying to answer honestly, no matter his discomfort.</p>
<p>He fought to speak for nearly thirty seconds before a thought crossed his face, and he hurried into his room, coming out a moment later with a journal I did not recognize. With a glance at me to make sure I was still waiting, he flipped hurriedly through the pages.</p>
<p>Stopping on a page near the beginning of the journal, he handed the little book to me, pointing to a specific paragraph.</p>
<p>“…And now,” I read silently, “as I sit in a shepherd’s hut in the mountains of Switzerland, I can only wonder how long it will take me to track the others down. I must dismantle Moriarty’s network before I can capture Moran, but Moran is the one that Moriarty told about Watson. I must stay away until Moran is behind bars, but the longer it takes me to return, the less likely it is that I will be well received. I knew when I chose this that I was choosing safety over friendship, but that does not mean I am willing to pay either price…”</p>
<p>I looked up, my question plainly written in my expression. Safety? What would Moriarty have told Moran about me? I had not helped with the Moriarty case nearly as much as I would have wished to. Why would it matter that Moran knew my name? And what did that have to do with making a regression his fault?</p>
<p>“It would have been my fault,” he told me, still so quietly I could barely hear him, “because the only reason I stayed gone for so long was to keep Moran from going after you or Mary.”</p>
<p>I leaned back onto the arm of the settee as I stared at him. Moriarty had—Moran would have—Holmes would not have left except that Moran had threatened <em>me</em>? Why would Moran—or Moriarty, for that matter—threaten me? I had had nothing to do with the investigation. There had been nothing in the dismantling of Moriarty’s network for which he could blame me. Holmes had done it all.</p>
<p>“But, why?” I finally voiced. He raised an eyebrow, and I expanded the question. “Why would Moran have gone after me, after Mary? I did not help you with that case.”</p>
<p>He hesitated again, finally saying, “For the same reason Moriarty attacked me at the top of the waterfall…and, for the same reason I sent you back to the hotel. If he was going down, he was going to take me with him.”</p>
<p>I made no reply, trying to hear what he did not say as well as decipher how the reasons he had listed were related. Moriarty wanted to kill Holmes. I had known that. The threats on Holmes’ life were the reason we had fled the country before the raids, why Holmes had insisted we close every window shade, and why I had taken my revolver. I had not let him out of my sight until Moriarty’s note has sent me on a red herring to help a patient.</p>
<p>Wait. Holmes had just said <em>he</em> had sent me away, not Moriarty. I looked up at him, and he nodded at my silent question. Whether he wrote the note himself or simply saw through it was immaterial. Holmes had known there was no patient back at the inn, but he had told me that he would be just fine, sending me back down the trail knowing that Moriarty was on his way. He had purposely sent me away so Moriarty would only be able to focus on Holmes.</p>
<p>Moriarty had threatened me long before Switzerland. But why? Why would Moriarty threaten me when I had contributed nothing to the investigation? I could think of only one reason.</p>
<p>I looked up, silently asking if I was right, and he nodded.</p>
<p>Holmes had left because Moriarty had threatened me, and Moriarty had threatened me because that was the quickest way to harm Holmes.</p>
<p>I relaxed as his meaning registered, and he relaxed as he realized no more words were needed. I settled back into my chair, and Holmes joined me by the fire after cleaning up his chemistry equipment. The conversation turned to other things, but I did find another sheet of paper on my chair the next morning.</p>
<p>The sketch was a bit more detailed than the other had been, and it showed one of the few times Mary had joined Holmes and me at Baker Street before my marriage. Mary sat on the settee, her gaze resting on me, and I sat in my armchair, hands moving as I animatedly explained something. Holmes sat in his armchair on the other side of the hearth, an expression of utter contentment on his face as he listened silently.</p>
<p>He flushed when he noticed the framed drawing sitting on my desk a few days later.                                                                                                                                                                 </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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